Tag Archive | United Kingdom

Stonehenge and The Golden Georgian City of Bath

Sep14

Friday and Saturday, September 12 and 13, 2008
Stonehenge and Bath

In all my travels in the UK, I have never been to Stonehenge. Avebury many years ago, yes, Stonehenge never. So, it was with anticipation that I arrived at this ancient site of mammoth sarcen and blue stone hoping to grasp at some of the mysteries of its creation and its significance. I left disappointed–in that I was able to understand neither. However, the aura of the place, the fact that so many centuries after it was created, so many tourists stopped there to encircle the wide grassy path and make something of the structure intrigued me and by the time I was halfway through the circle, I was awed too.

In and of itself, the ring of Stonehenge can seem like nothing more than just that–a ring of stones. But when you consider the massive effort it took to get those stones there from faraway Wales, the end-product is breathtaking in the same way that the Pyramids of Egypt are. By the way, the story about Druids creating the ring and coming there each year for ritualistic worship of the elements has been disproved. However, there is enough astronomical precision in the way the stones have been placed and the way the shadows of the earth and the sun lengthen and criss cross one again at strategic points for us to know that this was not a spot chosen at random nor was the placement of the stones a mere whim. There is enough scientific evidence to suggest that ancient man had a method to his madness and this is what makes the site enthralling.

On a humorous note, it was fun to see more teenagers take pictures of the sheep that went about their business, i.e. grazing on the pasture that surrounds the spot, than of the monument itself! But, as they say, there is no accounting for taste… or interest!

Then, we were driving on the wide and picturesque Salisbury Plains past the Weston Horse, a great engraving on a white chalk cliff, to arrive in the golden Georgian city of Bath that is, like Rome, perched on seven hills. No wonder the Romans embraced it and built a splendid city here over 2000 years ago. As if the location were inadequate, the Romans who came from a balmy and sunny clime to invade this cold and rainy little island, felt rewarded by the warm and abundant waters gushing from the earth and promptly named their new settlement Acqua Sulis dedicating the resort to the goddess Minerva. Given their penchant for communal bathing, the town became a spa especially as its muddy waters were said to have cured King Bladud (father of Shakespeare’s King Lear) of leprosy. Well, the rest, as they say, is history, and Bath has a fair share of that stuff.

On the many occasions that I have been to Bath, I have always gone on horseback–well, not literally, but what I mean is, in a hurry. I’ve combed the main sights–the spectacular fan vaulting of the Abbey, the romance of the Roman Baths, the elegance of the Pump Room with its Jane Austen and Beau Brummel associations and have posed by Pulteney Bridge…and then I was off.

This was the first time, I stayed in the city long enough to be able to embrace it as the Romans did. And I left with an affection for the city that I had never felt before. Walking through its golden streets–golden because the entire city is constructed of the famous warm honey-colored Cotswold stone with which the city of Oxford is also built–I felt a rare delight in the sheer uniformity of the color and the style of the buildings.

The entire city was designed and constructed by the father-son duo of John Nash–since they both had the same name, they are distinguished as The Elder and The Younger. Their love of classical architecture and clean Roman lines is evident everywhere you turn, from the Royal Theater which Jane Austen frequented (where I felt so fortunate to get a seat unexpectedly to watch Vanessa Redgrave play Joan Didion in The Year of Magical Thinking, an account of Didion’s grief-management when her husband John died while her daughter Quintana lay in a coma), to the Crescent (a semi-circle of plush mansions) to the Circle, a perfect circle of colonnaded homes built around a park, to the Assembly Rooms where the rich and famous gathered to dance, discuss community affairs, gossip and make matches, to the fashionable Pump Room where they basically did the same thing while sipping the medicinal waters of the hot spring–which I did too and found to be foul-tasting but warm.

On a past occasion when we had arrived as a family in Bath, Llew and I had attended a cocktail party in the Roman Baths, lit by giant fire torches at night, and had supped to the accompaniment of a classical quartet in the candlelit Pump Room–this was part of the recreation provided by the organizers of a conference at the famous University of Bath where I had presented a paper. This time, I was a tourist, with map and camera in hand, clicking away at the many centuries of history and architecture that lay ensconced in that one space–the Baths–and at the many lovely arches, crescents, bylanes, towers, steeples, bridges (I actually walked on Pulteney Bridge, this time, only one of two bridges that is lined with shops–the other being Florence’s Ponte Vecchio).

I also visited the Jane Austen Center (I mean how can you escape from old Janie when you are in Bath?) and saw costumes from a range of films in which her novels and her own uncomplicated life have been portrayed. I went to the Assembly Rooms and saw the Costume Museum, a wonderful receptacle of clothing through the ages. I also visited No. 1 Royal Crescent, a home that has been turned into a museum created to look exactly the way an interior of a privileged home night have looked when Bath was at the height of its popularity and appeal.

I strolled in the same gardens that Jane Austen and her family loved, saw her homes on Gay Street and Queen Square, window shopped in Milsum Street (reportedly the favorite shopping venue of Princess Diana) and in the covered Guildhall Market whose heyday had been the time of the Regency. I had looked forward to browsing through Bath’s many antiques shops but alas, the recession in America and the fallen dollar has affected the UK’s antiques market so badly that dozens of the shops along Antiques Row have closed down. However, I did my share of poking around a few multi-dealer locations and saw nothing to catch my fancy.

I could not leave Bath without doing two things: tasting the famous Bath Bun, a roll studded with raisins and stuffed with sugar cubes and visiting Sally Lunn’s establishment which also happens to be the oldest house in Bath, dating from Roman Times–or so they say. Inside, you listen to the story of a French Huguenot woman, escaping from persecution in the 1600s who arrived in Bath and set up her bakery. She began to bake a bun that was unlike anything the English had ever eaten–brioche-like, this soft confection stole their hearts away and the Sally Lunn Bun was born. Today, you can eat in or take out–a bun costs a pound and a half–and was the best little souvenir I took out of the city. Oh, but I forgot…my favorite souvenirs of the city were the genuine old coins I bought at the shop run at the Roman Baths. These coins from a bygone Britain included florins and half-crowns, farthings and shillings and a whole set of genuine copper pennies, one each from the reigns of all the monarchs that have ruled England in the 20th century, i.e.Victoria, Edward VII, George V, George VI and Elizabeth II. I intend to set these in silver and create an exquisite bracelet and necklace for myself.

I could not leave Bath without attending a rugby match, for Bath’s team is famous and superior to most, and I was able to catch a match in progress while standing on the lovely Pulteney Bridge and watching the teams as they moved in and out of my line of vision.

At night today, especially on weekend nights, Bath buzzes with a plethora of young people from all over the world who frequent its many pubs, clubs and restaurants, then get home sozzled and swaying along its uneven cobbled streets. The low lighting reminds me of the gaslit days when equally sozzled young dandies returned home from the gaming tables and fell drunk in their beds, attended, the next morning by their long-suffering servants. I caught a glimpse of this side of modern-day Bath as well on the late night stroll I took through the city and I was grateful to return to the comfort of my bed at the Travelodge just off Broad Street, where I awoke the next morning to streaming sunlight and the start of one of the first truly sunny days I have had in England since my arrival here.

Pho in Clerkenwell with Karen

Sep11

Thursday, September 11, 2008
London

When I called out the roster this morning in class, I did realize it was September 11–that dreadful date that, were I teaching in Manhattan, would have caused me to pause and recall events of seven years ago.

Here, in faraway London, however, we spared a passing thought to the tragedy that changed all our lives, then got down to the business of our class on Anglo-India in the 17th and 18th centuries.

In the evening, in-keeping with a ritual that Karen Karbeiner (my colleague from New York who is also going to spend a year teaching in London with me) and I have decided to initiate, we met at a Vietnamese restaurant in Clerkenwell called Pho. Karen informed me that the correct pronunciation of the word is ‘pha’ with a very short ‘ah’ sound!

I was tempted to order pho, which I love–a great big bowl of steaming broth with rice noodles and a variety of meats, served with crisp raw bean sprouts, springs of mint, lemon juice and roasted peanuts. Instead, because I am still on a low carb diet, we ordered a variation of it with a very small quantity of noodles and a lot of greens–healthy, hearty and very delicious indeed.

Karen and I spent the evening catching up with our respective research interests and our plans for the weekend. She, a very respected Whitman scholar, is off with her husband Douglas, A Renaissance Drama scholar, to a Whitman gathering in Bolton in Yorkshire followed by a weekend’s jaunt in the Dales. I told her that a visit to Castle Howard is a must.

As for me, I am off for a weekend jaunt myself–to Stonehenge and Bath and, no doubt, will have some interesting episodes with which to update this blog when I return.

Until then…here’s to memorable travels!

A Walk in Southwark and a Play at the Globe Theater

Sep10

Wednesday, September 1o, 2008
London

The sun finally peaked out today making a guest appearance during what, Londoners tell me, has been a dreadful summer on the whole. Of course, this rarity would have to occur on the one day in ten whole days that I had to stay home to prepare for my classes for tomorrow! Still, I can’t complain. I managed to salvage much of the warmth and light by working hard all morning at my desk making notes for my classes and adding new pages on our Scotalnd trip to my website.

Felcy came to meet me this morning. She is to be my new cleaning lady and will come in to do my domestic chores on Fridays. I was almost certain she would refuse to accept employment with me as I need her for such a short time only every other week. But I think she was delighted to find a compatriot in London–we can both trace roots to South India, she to Goa, me to Mangalore–and wanted to oblige. Also, she was recommended to me by a family friend whom she holds in high regard and for whom she has worked for years. So, it was all settled then and she will relieve me of the bulk of my chores. She seems cheerful and companionable and, thankfully, speaks perfect English. She also seems to know what needs to be done without being trained–which is a big comfort to me.

Today was also the day my first 2 movies arrived from LoveFilm which is the UK equivalent of Netflix. I picked them up from my mailbox this evening and hope to take full advantage of the free 30 day introduction they have given me. If this arrangement really works, I shall continue to pay them 12. 99 pounds per month to receive 2 DVDs at a time–unlimited. As it has turned out, I have been so busy writing, that I have hardly found any time for TV movies.

Lunch done and with my tickets having been booked for the 7.30 pm performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream at the Globe Theater, I decided to take one of those lovely walks in London as delienated in the book 24 Great Walks in London. This one is entitled “Bards and Bawks in Southwark”–pronounced “Sut-erk”. It was a two hour walk that began at Borough Tube Station and ended at London Bridge Tube Station. I gave myself a spare half hour at the Theater to enjoy a hot chocolate before the performance began.

As with all these walks, I realize that each time I set out I am in for a treat. I passed three churches–St. George the Martyr, the grand Southwark Cathedral, the oldest Gothic church in London (Shakespeare, Gower, Marlowe, Dickens–all worshipped here) and St. Thomas’ Church which was under heavy renovation and closed. I also saw the remains of the Marshalsea Prison in which Dickens’ father, John, was imprisoned as a debtor–an experience which so traumatized Dickens and was the subject of his prison scenes in Little Dorrit. In fact, the entire area is steeped in Dickens’ memorabilia. There is a Little Dorrit Playground and Court across the road and the Southwark Public Library has fascimile scenes on the wall of the first illustrated pages of the novel.

Southwark also had a totally delightful hidden garden called the Red Cross Garden created in the later 1880s by Octavia Hill from what was a paper factory, in her determination to create open play space for the poorest children of London’s south bank. The garden and the cottages that border it are adorable and I was amazed at how well it has retained its original objective. The space was full of the last roses of summer, an abundance of lavender–most drying on the bushes–bulrushes in a pond and catmint. Neat pathways allowed charming strolls and a couple of people sat on benches chatting amiably on what was a lovely afternoon indeed. But for the most part, the garden was deserted–a fact that added to its serene ambience.

Just a few steps away was Cross Bones, a cemetery for the prostitutes from Southwark’s brothels who were forbidden a decent burial in consecrated ground. The hypocrisy of Renaissance and Victorian Christian society was brought out in the callousness with which these women were treated. Forbidden by the Bishop of Winchester to be blessed in death, their professions were, in fact, licensed by the church! As time went by, this cemetery was used to bury paupers, the nameless dead. Today, it has been turned into a shrine by which to remember the poorest of the poor, those whom Time forgot.

Across the street, I arrived at Maiden Lane, the street on which the original Globe Theater stood in Shakespeare’s Time. Careful archeological digs have revealed some remnants of the original theater which have been carefully preserved and the area cordoned off from any future development. Just a few hundred meters away is the new revived Globe Theater, built through the efforts of American film-maker Sam Wanamaker who subsequently passed away. The gradual gentrification of Southwark means that droves of tourists are pouring into a part of London that received few visitors until ten years ago.

Today, the neglected, crumbling buildings of the neighborhood are being revitalized through modern housing projects that cost tens of hundreds of pounds. I was fascinated to walk through the former Bear Gardens where, in Medieval and Elizabethan times bear and bull-baiting tournaments were held–a bloody sport that fired the public imagination and was extrememly popular. I also passed by the old Rose Theater which staged plays by Ben Jonson and his contemporaries. Indeed, this part of Southwark was a cultural hothouse in the days of Elizabeth I and it slowly seems to be attaining that level of theatrical and cultural proficiency again.

Past The Globe, I saw the Clink Prison, the oldest remaining medieval prison in London and the remains of the Palace of the notorious Bishop of Winchester who, as can plainly be seen, lived a luxurious and lascivious life. Just a few steps ahead is a replica of The Golden Hind, the famous ship of which Elizabeth I knighted Francis Drake for his solo circumnavigation around the world. This brought me directly to Southwark Cathedral where the altar was recently refurbished and freshly gilded and looked stunning. (I had seen only glimpses of it shrouded under scaffolding when I was last there this past March with my friend Amy Tobin). I passed the famous Borough Market, England’s most famous food emporium and crossed over on to Borough High Street towards St. Thomas Lane where at the Church of St. Thomas, the Angel of Mercy Florence Nightingale worked as a nurse in an operating theater that is today, like the Clink Prison, a museum. I am stunned by the number of buildings that have been reconstructed and turned into museums. No matter how small they are, they are still receptacles of curiosity and of an epoch that is fascinating in its antiquity.

Then, I was at the New Globe Theater, Sam Wanamaker’s baby, its unique circular shape a wonderful addition to the river scape. It sits cheek by jowl with the equally unique Millennium Bridge and by their very presence these two structures–one essentially Elizabethan, the other Futuristic–have revitalized the South Bank and made it a must-do tourist destination.

It was a little past mid-summer when I got down to the comic business of seeing A Midsummer Night’s Dream, the Bard’s last comedy, at his own Globe Theater. What a difference it made seeing the evening show. When I had last seen a play at the Globe, a few years ago, I had attended a matinees show of Hamlet as a groundling, i..e. standing in the ‘pit’ by paying just five pounds for a ticket. I was unable to stand for more than an hour then and I had left having seen the entry of all the major characters.

This time I was seated, like Elizabethan aristocracy, in one of the ‘galleries’, enjoying the view from up above. The entire production was ‘over-the-top’, portrayed exactly as things happen in dreams, that is to say, with no resemblance at all to reality. The characters interacted with the audience in the pit in the same way that Shakespeare’s Lord Chamberlain’s Men (later The King’s Men) had done, resulting in an enormous amount of ad-libbing which the groundlings relished. Costumes were sumptuous, stage movements–including the choreographed dances–were strategic, performances were uniformly good–the best part of all was the clarity with which Shakespearean poetry is articulated by these well-trained artistes. Despite the ‘strangeness’ of the language, there is never any difficulty following the plot and the actors were so effortlessly able to roll the poet’s words off their tongues. Slapstick, great good rollicking humor, rough and tumble, the kind of high jinks that appealed so much to his audience kept this contemporary audience in splits and there was never a dull moment. There was even an attempt to delineate double roles through a change in accent, with Theseus and Hippolyta employing a Scots accent (with which I became so familiar on our recent travels in Scotland) when playing Oberon and Titania respectively. This, I thought, was an inspired example of dramatization.

During the intermission, I went downstairs into the courtyard, stood “Bankside” and gasped at the panorama of London laid out before my eyes. As the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral glowed softly, the varied heights of the other buildings were bathed in neon colors that brought a completely different vista to the urban landscape. These lights, reflected in the waters of the river as the Thames flowed gently downstream, took me back to the time of Elizabeth I when the traffic on the waters was thick with the “bards and bawds” of the walk I had taken earlier. How privileged I felt to be able to relive the grandeur of the greatest of Renaissance drama in the land of its birth, in a space that was so evocative of the exact atmosphere of a century long past.

I walked back to London Bridge Station with Prof. Mike Hattaway (no relation to Shakespeare’s wife Anne who spelt her surname with an ‘h’!) who teaches Shakespeare at NYU and is a Professor Emeritus at Sheffield University. We made a companionable twosome on the ten minute walk and have made plans to meet soon for lunch. To my enormous delight, though I changed Tube trains, I still made it home in 20 minutes flat! I simply cannot get over how quickly and easily I can travel from anywhere in London to my flat.
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It is for nights like this that I have longed for London in my dreams and to see them coming true night after night…it flies in the face of all my fondest expectations.

Screening of British Film “Yasmine”

Sep9

Tuesday, September 9, 2008
London

I was so footsore with all the walking I’ve done, I had to give my feet a rest today. Spent most of the day loading material into my website and preparing for my classes on Thursday.

Cabin fever set in by the evening, so I was glad to get out to our Bedford Square campus to watch a screening of Yasmine, a film by Kenneth Glenaan, maker of The Full Monty. I have made arrangements to attend a screening every Tuesday either on our campus or at the British Film Institute off Tottenham Court Road as part of the course on “British Cinema” being offered by Prof. Phillip Drummond.

This is a film that should be shown around the world, but while it was screened at the British Film Festival last year, it doesn’t seem to have drawn much attention at all. Must have to do with the explosive nature of the material, though for readers of Monica Ali’s Brick Lane, the themes and the treatment should come as no surprise.

The film traces the alteration in mainstream perceptions towards the Muslim community in the UK since 9/11 through the female protagonist Yasmine (superbly played by Archie Punjabi of East is East, Bend It Like Beckham and, most recently, A Mighty Heart fame). Through her sensitive performance, she shows that she can carry a film through independently.

Based on the life of a young British-born Muslim girl in Bradford who rejects her religion, culture and identity to adopt English ways, but who allows herself to be married against her wishes to a Pakistani relative who seeks British citizenship, Yasmine attempts to pursue an independent life for herself with a job, a car and a set of British buddies. Everything changes for her when the anti-terrorist raids in Great Britain turned Muslim youngsters against the establishment and led them to join pro-Muslim organizations for the defence of the world’s poor oppressed Muslims. Yasmine, herself, becomes the subject of suspicion merely on the basis of her ethnicity and her religion, her innocent, simple-minded husband is arrested and locked up, her father and brother are manhandled by police, her colleagues turn against her and her female boss suggests that she take a leave of absence.

The end result is that her brother leaves home to seek his fortune in a doctrinal training camp in Pakistan and Yasmine turns to the Koran, seeking answers to her identity and her future in a world that has been senselessly rocked by Western hegemony determned to assert its ideological and military supremacy. She returns sympathetically to her husband whom she had earlier wished to divorce, reconciles herself with her warring father and moves on, determined to take pride in her Islamic heritage.

The screening had been preceded by a documentary film in which a young female Islamic reporter in Great Britain attempted through historical evidence and interviews with Muslim scholars to examine the origin of Muslims in the UK and to understand why attitudes towards them have roller-coastered throughout the past two hundred years. The end result of that film also was the decision on the part of the narrator, to assert her pride in her Muslimness, by donning the head scarf–something she had shunned for her entire life. The film brought home to viewers the deliberate steps that Muslims are taking all over the world to reassert their individuality and to express their desire to maintain a separate and individual community while retaining their unique culture in the face of global hostility towards them.

If you ever get a chance, I would strongly suggest that you grab it and see this movie.

Tomorrow, I am off to the Globe Theater to see a performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

Explorations Around King’s Cross

Sep8

Monday, September 8, 2008
London

The best part about exploring London is that you never know what you will come across every time you venture outdoors. There I was, at the start of the day, believing that all I was doing was registering at my local public library (Holborn Library) so I could gain access to some fun reading and viewing (fiction, magazines, DVDs) and at the British Library (for access to some serious manuscripts, documents, letters) when I made so many interesting discoveries.

First of all, the British Library sits right next door to St. Pancras, the venerable old Victorian railway station, near King’s Cross, that is vaguely reminiscent of Victoria Terminus in Bombay–all red brick and towering grey granite. Contrasting completely in architectural style, the British Library is modern, even futuristic, on the outside. Inside, it reminds one of a cineplex, all glass and silent escalators and balconies in tiers like the decks of a ship. There are even some sail-like objects that float near the mezzanine. I couldn’t quite decide whether I liked the design or not.

Readers and researchers were all over the place–seated on the many chairs outside the reading rooms, working silently on their laptops or taking a breather on the benches on the landing. After my registration was complete and I was the bearer or a proud new ID card with my picture on it, I visited the Humanities Reading Room that was filled almost to capacity with scholars. There was a hushed silence about the place as everyone seemed to be deeply absorbed in their projects. In a couple of days, I shall call for some material myself, then hope to start my research by the end of the week.

Since there was a special exhibit on The Ramayana at the British Library, I could not resist visiting it. And how enchanted I was by what I saw. The entire manuscript of the Sanskrit epic, known as The Mewar Manuscript and commissioned in the 16th century by Maharana Jagat Singh of Udaipur was on display. Done in the style of the Rajasthani miniature painting, it spelled out in minute detail the various trials and tribulations of Ram and Sita. A story that is long familiar to every Indian child, the epic has become known internationally, thanks to a recent television series that was a mega hit in India. I intend to send my students to see this amazing exhibition in order to introduce them to the colorful characters that populate India’s ancient epics and to see the connection between similar western epics in which good triumphs, ultimately, over evil.

Unable to resist the temptation to see St. Pancras Station from within, I hopped over next door and entered the international section from where the Eurostar trains bound across the Chunnel to Paris, Lisle and Brussels depart. I was amazed by the manner in which the old Victorian structure has been reconfigured to fit in these ultra-modern trains. The ceiling is a grid created by glass and concrete and the station has been divided into tiers quite superbly. I simply cannot wait to cross the Chunnel by this supremely modern mode of transport. Shops and restaurants line the main concourse and I was delighted to see Le Pain Quotidien which is my favorite chain of coffee shops in New York. Naturally, I felt compelled to nip in to buy myself a large jar of their Belgian Praline Spread–absolutely yummy on raisin bread. If they have other London outlets, I have yet to discover them.

I then took the escalator to the mezzanine to study and indeed to touch the wonderful bronze sculpture of Sir John Betjeman, the poet whose love for England’s ancient architectural monuments led him to campaign for the preservation of so many of them including St. Pancras Station which, incredibly, someone wished to demolish. Thanks to his efforts, the Eurostar Terminal came into being and the rest of the massive building is in the process of being converted into a five-star hotel whose opening is scheduled for 2009. Sculptor Martin Jennings has created a portly depiction of Betjeman, coat tails flapping in the wind, one hand clutching a battered attache case, another used to shade himself from the glare as he squints into the sun. Engraved around the sculpture are these lines from one of Betjeman’s poems:

And in the shadowless unclouded glare
Deep blue above us fades to whiteness where
A misty sea-line meets the wash of air

His name is also engraved around the circle on which he stands, not thankfully on a pedestal, but at eye level to the viewer, with the words, “John Betjeman, 1906-1984 , Poet who saved this glorious station”.

I also discovered the Waitrose at Brunswick Square, a very hip mall in Bloomsbury, not too far from where I live. I did pick up some more mouthwatering goodies from there and carted them back on the 12 minute walk to my flat.

Coincidentally, I was watching a murder mystery entitled “Death at Nine” starring Emilia Fox on TV in the evening when I realized that the concluding scene was set at St. Pancras Station to which the murderer goes, buys a ticket, boards a train and attempts to escape to Brussels. How bizarre I thought, that just this morning, I was actually there in the flesh exploring that very stretch of London space and remembering the encounter I had in Simla, India, when I was thirteen, with Lady Penelope Chetwode, wife of none other than Sir John Betjeman. Indeed, I had first heard about him from her and so many decades later, there I had been, perusing the sculpture that has been created in his beloved London as a permanent memorial to his passion for beautiful buildings.

I felt as if I had come full circle.

Sung Latin Mass in England’s Oldest Catholic Church

Sep7

Sunday, September, 2008

My day began gloriously with the discovery that I might soon be registered as a parishioner in the oldest Catholic Church in England! Three days ago, in an attempt to find the location of Catholic churches closest to my residence at Holborn, I had googled the words ‘Catholic parishes in London’ and came up with three: St. Anselm and St. Cecilia’s at Lincoln Inn Fields, St. Peter’s at Clerkenwell Road and St. Etheldreda’s at Ely Place. Studying the map of London, I also made the discovery that the last one was closest to me–just three block away as we would say in New York. So I went to their website and found out that the Latin Mass is sung in this church every Sunday at 11 am. So there I was giving myself, or so I thought, enough time to find the place of worship.

Easier thought that done! I circled Holborn Circle on foot several times, asked many passers-by if they knew where the Catholic Church was but drew a complete blank. Meanwhile, the square tower of St. Andrew’s Presbyterian church loomed in front of me and another Protestant church was right behind it. But not a sign of St. Etheldreda’s did I see.

Just when I was beginning to despair, I dug out my map and carefully followed it towards Ely Place, a very small, nondescript lane right in front of my eyes. And there it was: a small, nondescript sign that said: ‘Ely Place for St. Etheldreda’s Church’. A few steps later, I was entering an ancient church, so completely hidden away from the main road and even the street front that I could have walked right by it and missed it altogether.

Mass had just barely begun when I entered and the rich sounds of a Latin choir singing a Gregorian chant reached my delighted ears. I was so relieved to have found the place that I forgot to notice the sobering age of the building as I walked down a narrow corridor, no doubt the cloister of old and entered a darkened church, fragrant with incense.

It was also packed, many members of the congregation dressed in tourist garb–the church is probably mentioned in Lonely Planet or some other guide as a must-see church in London. Taking my seat just after the Introductory Rite was complete, I picked up a brochure lying on my seat and was able to follow most of the Latin liturgy. The choir was marvelous and the priest whose name I did not get, preached a very long and very learned sermon rife with allusions to the Letters of St. Paul and an attempt to interpret Scripture for our 21st century intellects.

Right ahead of me, creating an arresting focal point were exquisite stained glass widows. These were also visible throughout the three sides of the church and at the very opposite end was another equally stunning one. The interior walls were lined with yellow Cotswold stone with windows sporting typical Gothic tracery. Statues of saints encircled the church high upon their carved stone plinths. The effect was deeply awesome and I felt humbled in the presence of so much holiness. It was clear to me, merely from a cursory glance at the interior, that this church was old, indeed as old, if not older than Roslyn Chapel that we had seen in Roslyn, Scotland, not even a fortnight ago.

I thoroughly enjoyed the service, every second of it, and was inspired and moved by the devotion expressed by the people all around me. In keeping with the rites of the old sung Latin mass, there was a solemnity throughout the proceedings and everyone looked suitably formal and serious. One of the con-celebrants, who came out to help distribute Communion, was an Indian priest. I hoped to meet with him at the end of the Mass but he was detained by a parishioner who asked him f0r a special blessing.

After Communion, I glanced at the short history of the Church as detailed on the brochure and discovered that St. Etheldreda’s was the first church to return to Catholicism after the Protestant Reformation in England which makes it the oldest Catholic Church in the country. The street is named after the Bishop of Ely (outside Cambridge) who arrived in 1250 to build a church on the site. The church in which Mass is celebrated today is all that remains of what was the vast land holding of the church. It was named after St. Etheldreda who grew up near Ely, remained a virgin according to the terms of her marriage agreement and after the death of her husband founded two monasteries and served as abbess of one of them until her death, the cause of which was a tumor in her neck. When her body was dug up about twelve years after her death, it was found to have remained uncorrupted and the tumor had completely disappeared.

Henry the VIII held a banquet in this church in 1531 that lasted five days and his daughter Queen Elizabeth I in the late 1570s ordered that a part of the church’s property be turned over to Lord Hatton, after whom the adjoining street was named–today known as Hatton Gardens, London’s jewelry district. Imagine all this Tudor and Elizabethan history literally in my own backyard! I was so delighted by the church’s location so close to where I live that I have resolved to make a trip there again in a day or two to register as a new parishioner.

The rest of the day passed by as I did a spot of cooking–Meatballs in Tomato Sauce, a Chicken and Mixed Vegetable Stir Fry with Wagamama’s Spicy Chili Men Sauce and a nice Chicken Caesar Salad.

In the evening, I went for a short walk, just to get some air, up to New Oxford Street and back, strolling around the British Museum and browsing in some of the stores that were open on a Sunday evening.

Tomorrow begins a new week in London–my second–and I hope to get down to some research in the library.

Knocking About Belgravia…and Chelsea

Sep6

Saturday, September 6, 2008
London

Saturday…I love the sound of that word and the possibility it conjures for unbounded adventure . Not even the gloom of another sunless day dampened my enthusiasm and breakfast done, I showered and picked out a walk from the book Chriselle and Chris presented me for my birthday–Frommer’s 24 Walks in London. I chose the first one in the book–Knocking About Belgravia, which began at Victoria Train Station, lasted 2 hours and wound its way through the most genteel parts of London to Hyde Park.

So all that I will put down in this installment, I learned from the book. Did you know, for instance, that Ian Fleming, author of the James Bond thrillers lived in Ebury Street in a bachelor pad whose exterior looked like a church? Well, I saw the place but not the blue plaque that supposedly proclaimed his occupancy of it. Not too far away was the home of Brian Epstein, Beatles’ manager ,who eventually took his own life in the bedroom of a lovely corner townhouse on whose porch the Beatles had often posed for album cover shots.

I walked through the most delightful lanes that were once ‘mews’–rows of two storey structures with large doors on the ground floor–they were stables for horses, the thousands that kept the coach trade alive in bygone Britain. On the top floor lived the groomsmen and footmen, their occupancy proclaimed by a row of sash windows. Interestingly, these mews are most in abundance in this well-heeled part of London for the owners of the homes along the squares were the ones that could afford to keep their own horse drawn carriages and the numbers of ‘servants’ that it took to maintain them. I swear, if you had the imagination to transport you to a century ago, you could easily imagine yourself living in the England of Victoria. These ‘mews’ homes now cost millions and while they still retain their quaint cobbled streets, their facades are filled with hanging baskets whose gaily colored blooms bring a new elegance to the hamlets.

Passing by the famous ‘squares’ that were created in 18th century London–Eaton Square and Belgravia Square and Cadogan Square, I did indeed feel transported to a time when the privileged led a charmed life coddled by the attention of devoted servants. But since I am still reading London by A.N. Wilson, I know that in the midst of all that newly-acquired wealth, the city housed millions of people who lived lives of quiet desperation for poverty was rife in London until barely a hundred years ago.

Not that you would know anything of the sort in this affluent quarter. I saw the headquarters of the Spiritualist Association of Great Britain–a very unassuming building on Belgravia Square where the author Sir Arthur Conan Doyle penned some of his best known Sherlock Holmes’ stories in a chair that has been carefully preserved. Members of the public, my book informed me, are welcome to attend seances here–spooooky!

I passed by two delightful pubs that were straight out of a former era–The Plumbers Arms, dating from the 1820s, so-called because plumbers used to come in for their daily pints and The Grenadier, a pub so tucked away from everything that were it not for my book and the route I was following, there is no way I would ever have chanced upon it. And yet there it was–gleaming in patriotic red, white and blue, right besides the Old Barracks Yard that housed the horses of Iron Man Wellington who presumably mounted his own horse there. All of these hidden corners of London are cutely picturesque and bear examining.

Then, I took my own detour towards Sloan Square in Chelsea to see Cadogan Place where my friend Rosemary Harding told me that she once spent a summer. It was an equally impressive area with wonderfully solid buildings, each sporting a different architectural design from Georgian to Victorian. The Jumeriah Hotel takes up one side of it but the gardens that it faces were welcoming despite the constant drizzle that played all day.

A few steps later, I was at the Sloan Street store of Jo Malone whose products I adore. I sampled some of their fragrances, then arrived at Sloan Square where I rested for a bit on a park bench, taking in the red buses passing in stately languor and the shoppers running in and out of Peter Jones department store laden with goodies. Who said there is a recession in Great Britain?

Then, a long walk down the King’s Road led me to an outdoor food fair where I felt sustained by delicious freebie nibbles in the form of cheeses and breads, olive oils, spreads and sausages. Nipping into Waitrose, I bought an exquisite cheese–Stilton with Dates and Orange–a delicious dessert cheese. I also found cold tongue that I rarely see in the United States and which I love in sandwiches–though nothing I have ever tasted comes close to the ones made at home by my friend Marianel in Bombay. I also picked up some fresh vegetables to make a stir-fry tomorrow.

Then, with my feet fairly killing me, I backtracked, going down lovely Walton Street which has a most wonderful store that stocks only Herend and Meissen porcelain. I could not resist browsing through it and thought I was in the Herend showroom in Budapest, Hungary, all over again. I passed so many of the stores I have read about in all my home and design magazines through the years–Dragons of Walton Street, Nina Campbell, etc. The merchandise was so mouthwatering that I was glad my hands were full with the shopping bags I was carrying and had to get on a Tube fast to get back home or else I would have spent the rest of the day there. These walks are the only way to discover London and I intend to reach for the next one in the book really soon.

In the evening, my friend Marian Almeida Kumar from Reston, Virginia, came over to meet me at home–my first visitor in London. We spent the evening together over coffee and flapjacks from Marks and Sparks and caught up on all the happenings in our lives. She is here to settle her daughter Candice into college where she will be studying Fashion Photography. Marian and I hope to meet again next week before her return to the United States. It felt great to meet an old friend again in this city so far away from my permanent home. Though Marian and I meet only rarely, it is always in unexpected parts of the world and our conversations are always fun and entertaining.

The Graciousness of Greenwich

Sep5

What’s the first thing you think of when you hear the word ‘Greenwich? For me, it’s always been Greenwich Mean Time. Coming close on it’s heels is the Prime Meridian. All those geography lessons in grade eight or nine come back so vividly. So, when Freshmen Orientation included a visit to Greenwich on a Thames River cruise, I was ready to join in a heartbeat. After all, it had been 22 years since I had last stood astride the Prime Meridian and taken a picture of myself straddling the Eastern and Western Hemispheres; and I was keen to see how much the place had changed since I was last there.

Well, as luck would have it, the day dawned grey and somber–in other words, a typical English September morn! We had instructions to assemble at Westminster Pier at 10. 15 and changing a train at Bond Street, I made it to the Embankment in just about a half hour. (I still can’t quite get used to the fact that it does not take me more than half an hour to get anywhere in London. Being based in Connecticut, getting to New York meant at least two hours!)

Our NYU hordes were noisy as might best be imagined when about 200 students are restlessly anticipating a ‘field-trip’. We had the boat almost to ourselves and with a rather jolly guide providing a rather jocular running commentary, we were well entertained all the way to the Tower of London and beyond.

I was so excited! This was my first ever glimpse of London from the River Thames. Brown and muddy though the river was, towering Big Ben seemed to glow above us. The London Eye and all of the most easily recognizable monuments–St. Paul’s, the Tate Modern, Sir Norman Foster’s Gherkin, The Globe Theater, all seemed to look completely different from this perspective. And then there was so much I learned about the lesser-known buildings that dot the waterfront. Some of London’s oldest pubs and taverns enjoy river-views. I saw the infamous Traitor’s Gate–leading to the dreaded Tower of London–for the very first time. The Mayflower sailed to the New World from a wharf on the river. The city’s water supply comes exclusively from the river–though it goes through several purification procedures, no doubt, to make it potable and completely safe for consumption. A far cry indeed from the Victorian days of Benjamin Disraeli who described the river as “a Stygian pool reeking with ineffable and unbearable horror”. (London by A.N. Wilsom, p. 105) He did not exaggerate. The Houses of Parliament built so picturesquely on the waterfront sometimes had to close for the day as the stench from the river was so unbearable. The Thames is today one of the cleanest industrial waterways in the world. These were some of the facts I gleaned from the guide who kept us fascinated and deeply amused by his tongue-in-cheek commentary.

Then, we alighted at Greenwich Pier where we were met by the famous Blue Badge guides. Our large group was divied up into smaller segments and I was assigned the charge of 35 students under the guidance of a very upbeat guide named Fedra Jones. She led us past the Cutty Sark, one of the oldest surviving Victorian tea clippers, unfortunately, shrouded under canvas as it undergoes repairs following a devastating recent fire. I remember having toured it 22 years ago and been astounded by the depths of its hold and its immense capacity. I had also then seen the Gypsy Moth II on which Sir Francis Chichester had achieved a solo circumnavigation of the globe. His tiny vessel, almost toy-like, is today harboured at Clowes on the Isle of Wight, but a pub right by the pier still carried the name of The Gypsy Moth.

Despite the intermittent rain that had brought the temperature crashing down, the village of Greenwich was abuzz. Fedra led us through a narrow cobbled street to the Greenwich Market where business appeared rather slow. My eyes were attracted to a stall that sold commemorative china but I was unable to find anything I coveted.

Next, we were were heading towards the Royal Naval College where some of the world’s best known sailors had trained including Admiral Lord Nelson and the husband of the current Queen Elizabeth, Phillip, Duke of Edinburgh. I was completely blown by the magnificence of the architecture. The classical lines of those stately building that hinted at the work of John Vanbrugh (of Castle Howard fame)and Nicholas Hawksmoor and, of course, Sir Christopher Wren himself, was easily evident to someone with even a passing knowledge of London’s greatest designers. Then, just a few steps away was the Queen’s House, work of Inigo Jones. Imagine…in less than a quarter of a mile, I saw the architectural creations of some of the most eminent English architects of all time. How incredible was that???

And what astounding creations they were too! The imposing classicism of Wren’s twin domes flanked by uniform columns. And the buildings themselves–one meant to be a chapel, the other a dining room for the nation’s mariners. Right across the street, the severe lines of the Queen’s House that lacked any exterior ornamentation. To its right, the Royal Maritime Museum, crammed with some of the most intriguing memorabilia of all time. All of these jaw-dropping curiosities stacked within a few street blocks! How could one possibly comprehend this treasure?
Then, just when I began to feel overwhelmed by the splendour of the architecture, we entered the dining room, referred to today as The Painted Hall, and I almost passed out! The impact was so stunning visually that I gasped audibly. In a space that was meant to provide a sheltered room for the sailors’ meals, contemporary 18th century artist James Thornhill went crazy, painting the walls and ceiling with scenes that melded classical Greek mythology with contemporary royal figures such as King George IV, his queen and children. Neither pictures nor words can do justice to the magnificence of this room that ranks, in my opinion, as one of England’s grandest, on par perhaps, only with Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel. It was in this sumptuous room that the body of Lord Nelson lay in state before it was transported up the river to St. Paul’s Cathedral for a state funeral.

I could have spent an hour at least contemplating those paintings and marveling at their detail, but I made my way next to the Chapel where the captivating altar piece by the American artist Benjamin West grabbed my attention. In a room whose decoration was markedly Greek with some of the most exquisite plasterwork I have ever seen, it was impossible to pray. Indeed, I felt as if I had strayed into a private room in an opulent European palace. Embellished liberally with Coade stone carvings in bas-relief, this chapel was not to be missed.

At this point, Fedra took her leave of us and the formal portion of our tour ended. Deciding to spend the rest of the day at Greenwich exploring the interiors of the Royal Maritime Museum and the Queens Palace, I went in search of a seat for a spot of lunch and a hot chocolate and could not have picked a better place than Paul’s Patisserie that was in the museum. My feet received a much-longed-for rest and then my exploration began in the Nelson Gallery where the suit of clothes worn by Nelson was on display, complete with bullet hole and resulting bloodstains! His status as a war and national hero was proclaimed by the variety of memorabilia that was gathered in that room, much of which I found deeply interesting.

Other highlights of that museum included the Baltic Exchange stained glass windows by Forsythe, the Bridge upon which one could virtually stir a ship through a harbor and to the high seas, the ornate gilded barge made for Prince Frederick and, my favorite, an exhibit on 20th century ocean liners. I saw pictures of Gandhi on the S.S. Rajputana, the P. & O. liner on which he sailed to England in 1930 for the First Round Table Conference, menu cards from the historic ships the Mauritania and the Lusitania, real portable wardrobe trunks, a reproduction of the sort of bunk beds that were laid out in the galley and a host of other things that further romanticized for me the glamor of luxury sea-faring in the Edwardian Age. I loved it!

Then, I was racing to tour the Queen’s House, built by Inigo Jones, which became the primary abode of Queen Henrietta Maria in the 18th century. Here, it was the exquisite Tulip Staircase that caught my eye, the black and white marble mosaic floor of the Great Hall and the wonderful Tudor portraits that I fancied. The ‘grotesque-style’ ceiling of the Queen’s Room was also impressive but truly after seeing Thornhill’s work in The Painted Hall, everything else paled into insignificance.

Back out on the streets, with 5 pm approaching, I decided to stroll around Greenwich Village to take in the 10th century churchyard of St. Alfrege’s, an old dominating structure in Portland stone. I did try to take a peak inside but it was locked. A quick stroll followed around the Greenwich Market where I browsed among the bric-a-brac. I almost bought an Indian gold necklace studded with tiny diamonds, rubies and emeralds but walked away from the temptation when I saw that one of the diamonds had dropped out hinting at rather poor workmanship.

Then, I decided to do something unique. I could have taken the Docklands Light Railway from the Cutty Sark Station itself, but I went out in search of another adventure.Forget about the Chunnel (Channel plus Tunnel), I intended to explore the Thammel–my name for Thames plus Tunnel, get it? Indeed, Fedra had pointed out a foot path that took the walker under the River Thames on what it called the Greenwich Foot Passage. Now while I have never travelled through the Chunnel, I had often driven under a river–the Hudson River between New York and New Jersey and, believe me, I have often wondered what it might feel like to walk in that space. Unable to resist the temptation, I decided to find out and what a fun adventure that turned out to be. I entered through one of the glass domed structures and went about eight floors underground on a spiral staircase. In a few minutes–somewhat scary as there was no one else there at the time and I almost turned back–I found myself under the muddy bed of the River Thames, striding along in a tube that was covered with white ceramic tiles, in the company of a handful of other brave souls. In exactly fifteen minutes, I reached the other side and found a lift, thankfully manned by an attendant, that took me back to the surface on the opposite bank. What an amazing adventure I had and how sorry I felt that I did not have Llew to share it with. I know he would have been bowled over by the idea of walking under the river as much as we once enjoyed walking behind the Niagara Falls through a similar passage hewn in the rock behind the cascading water.

By then I was exhausted and could not wait to sit on the train–my first time on the Docklands Light Railway from the Island Garden station on the Isle of Dogs that took me back to Central London passing through the exciting parts of Canary Wharf that have developed so enormously in recent times that I have resolved to go out and explore that area on another day–perhaps a sunnier one. I got off at Bank where it terminated and took the Central Line where I got back home in another two stops.

Suffice it to say that my day was filled with adventures and I returned home exhausted but deeply fulfilled by what I saw and experienced.

First Day of Classes and a Private Art Opening

Sep4

Today was simply amazing! Not only did I awake excited because I was going back to teach after a four month long summer vacation but I had an unexpectedly lovely evening as well.

I seem to have fallen into a wake-up routine with my body clock rousing me by 6 am.–how great it feels not to have to awake to an alarm clock anymore! This leaves me with an hour to read in bed (I am currently reading London by A. N. Wilson, a hugely fascinating account of the history of the city as told through its architecture).

Breakfast done, I showered and left for work about 9.15 taking yet another route to Bloomsbury. In fact, I am discovering shorter and more interesting ways to get to Bedford Square from my place at Holborn every time I walk that route. Today’s rambles took me past Bloomsbury Square, Great Russell Square and Bedford Square with their sedate Georgian houses lining the gardens that structure them into neat urban parcels. This planning of the heart of London is simply ingenious.

Both classes that I taught today–one on Anglo-Indians, the other on Writing–went off well. They are small classes and the students seem eager to learn.They are also quite vocal and are happy to share their views and perceptions. They are excited to be in London and seem to be enjoying the experience. I have seen two familiar faces in my classes–students who have taken my courses earlier in New York have signed up to take my classes again. Despite the fact that they are three hour classes that meet just once a week, time flew, and I wasn’t able to cover everything I meant to finish today…but then a great deal of time was spent introducing ourselves to each other and breaking the ice.

Multiculturalism reigns supreme in my classes. I have students from several parts of the globe–Korea, China, Poland, France, Canada and, of course, the good ole US of A. Their global experience is enviable and their openness to unfamiliar cultures is heartening.

Best of all, I loved the spaces in which I teach. My Anglo-Indian Studies class meets in a gorgeous room at Bedford Square with high ceilings, ornate brass American colonial style chandeliers, deep classical moldings and a fireplace! Somehow our Audio-visual equipment looks incongruous there–clashing with the Georgian ambiance of the building. Just outside my classroom is a magnificent staircase punctuated with plaster work with classical motifs reminiscent of the best work of Josiah Wedgwood. There is a certain solemnity to the space that affects me personally and I feel inspired to teach in such surroundings.

My Writing class meets at Birkbeck College of the University of London, just a block away from our Bedford Square premises. The English students have not yet returned for the start of their new academic year–they will be back at the end of the month of September. This leaves us using the premises exclusively. No doubt, it will be far more crowded when the entire student component is around. My class is on the 2nd floor–it is a corner room with wraparound windows on two sides that flood the room with light and sunshine. Outside in the quadrangle are mature trees whose branches seem to brush our windows. There is an expanse of green lawn just beneath us and the entire area is hushed. I cannot believe I am in the midst of the bustling city of London! How fortunate can any student (and teacher) be to have so appealing a view from a window?

When my classes ended for the day, I attended another freshman Orientation meeting with our Study Abroad Program Advisor Beth Haymaker and then finally decided to leave for home at 7 pm. I took my time walking back, stopping to buy an international phone card. When I reached home, I found a voice mail from my friend Janie Yang inviting me to the private opening of a new art exhibition by her friend Fletcher Sibthorp at the Medici Gallery on Cork Street in Mayfair, right next door to the Royal Academy of Art. Drinks at the opening would be followed by dinner …and she hoped I could make it.

Well, I grabbed my bag and left immediately (never one to miss a good gig!) getting there on the Tube in a jiffy. And how glad I was that I had the energy after a 6 hour teaching routine to take in the show. It was a most impressive exhibition that featured portraits in oil of women, tall, elegant and willowy, many of whom were ballet dancers. Fletcher, whom I had the pleasure of meeting, is a latter-day Degas with access to the world of ballet dancing. His portraits are realist and vibrant, his colors bold and his depiction of the dancers shows consciousness of their delicate physical form and posture. I thoroughly enjoyed browsing through the gallery which was filled with designers of every kind as most of them went to school art with each other and are old friends.

Dinner followed at Amba Restaurant at the historic Mayfair Hotel (a blue plaque informed me that “Their Majesties the King and Queen had visited the hotel in 1927…”) where Fletcher had made a reservation for some of his closest friends. Janie and Jimmy urged me to stay and I ended up enjoying a lovely meal with some of the friends I made last week–Tanya and Stewart were there–and some new friends that I had the chance to chat with, among them John Ambler and a lovely lady called Vivian whose male companion, a vet, was called Steven. I told him that I had just returned from the Yorkshire Dales where I had visited the home of James Herriott and he informed me that ever since Herriott’s novels became bestsellers the demand for seats in veterinary schools expanded so enormously that the grades required were almost impossible to achieve and it became far more difficult to learn to become a vet than a physician. I thought that was a very interesting fact to glean. Steven ended, somewhat bitterly, “James Herriott’s own grades in school were rubbish, but his success as a writer ended up making all of us swot hard to even get into vet school!”

Having started a low carb diet, I was worried that I would not find adequate choices on the menu but the Gloucestershire Loin of Pork with caramelized onions and balsamic reduction was very good and certainly met my current food restrictions.

It was almost midnight when we left the restaurant and chose to walk along some of the swankiest parts of London passing by Saville Row and Bond Street, the Burlington Gardens and Hay Hill. Shops carrying the names and logos of Bulgari and Chopard and Asprey enticed us by their exquisite window displays and an antique jewelry store called Bentley and Shepherd (if I remember correctly) sported gigantic logos to proclaim their royal warrants. I am slowly learning all these lovely parts of the city and am delighted to be introduced to them by native Londoners who love their city as much as I do and are very pleased to share it with me.

It was long past midnight when I reached home but by then I had received my second wind and sat down to hammer out these lines before bed.

Tomorrow also promises to be a busy day what with our Freshman Trip to Greenwich; but the forecast is calling for heavy rain all day and I hoping it will not be a complete washout. Fingers crossed!

Au Revoir, Llew

Sep2

Monday, September 1, 2008, London

And then it was over. Llew’s two week holiday in the UK came to an end today as he prepared to return home by the 6. 30 pm American Airlines flight to New York. It was hard for me to accept the finality of his return and we decided to spend the day in the most fruitful way as he helped me carry out the last of the chores I needed to do—namely, transporting my boxes of books from my office at New York University to my flat at Holburn.

But first, we had to purchase a few things at Marks and Spencer on Oxford Street and at Sainsburys—the kind of last-minute biscuits (Scottish shortbread) and chocolates (Cadbury’s Roses) that one usually carries back for one’s colleagues. And then we were at Bedford Square loading the boxes into a black cab and arriving at home where we deposited them.

Then, Llew busied himself packing and straightening his suitcase and soon it was time for us to grab a quick last lunch and then leave for Heathrow. It was hard to say goodbye but Llew rests in the knowledge that I have a beautiful flat in a very safe and secure building, in a neighborhood that is buzzing all day and is just a stone’s throw away from everything. And I rested in the knowledge that he will be back with me soon in October—just before I know it, he will fill this flat with his comforting presence once again.

After I left him at the security gates, I took the Tube from Heathrow and headed back home, then went directly to Sainsburys to do a big grocery shop for such staples as eggs and salt and pepper, olive oil and vinegars, cream and butter and roast chicken and bacon and Cumberland sausages and lemons and scallions and lettuce and tomatoes and mustard and Stilton Cheese and, for dessert, chocolate éclairs—all of the things one needs in a standard pantry.

I ate myself a very unhealthy solitary dinner (perhaps because I missed Llew’ presence) but I will be beginning a diet tomorrow that will eliminate all carbs for the next two weeks in my attempt to flush out all the unhealthy toxins I have been consuming over our two week holiday in Scotland. I shall start cooking tomorrow and I have little doubt that I shall soon return to routine and my weighing scale will soon return to sanity as well.

I already miss Llew’s loving presence in the flat and while he is airborne somewhere over the Atlantic, I whisper a prayer for his safe arrival home at Holly Berry House and a very meaningful reunion with him once again in a few weeks.